by Jennie Lucas
“Do you like the cottage?”
She glared at him. “Sure. It’s lovely—for a prison.”
“If you wish to regard it that way.”
“How else should I see it?”
“You could call it a vacation.” Lifting a dark eyebrow, he gave her a wicked half smile. His eyes traced her body. “It’s a pity we had no time to pack in Greece. Fortunately I’ve arranged a new wardrobe for you here.”
He pushed open the sliding doors to reveal the bedroom. Walking to a closet, he opened the doors.
Peering past him, Rose saw an arrangement of bikinis and several little beach cover-ups, scandalizingly short robes of thin cotton lace or translucent gauze. That was it. There was nothing else to wear. Her eyes widened. Leaning back, she put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “Where’s the rest?”
“Oh. Is there nothing in there but bikinis for you?” he said innocently.
But it was worse than that. She sucked in her breath as, looking further inside the closet, she saw men’s T-shirts and shorts. A sinking feeling went through her heart. “Why are your clothes in my closet?”
He came behind her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body. “This is a honeymoon cottage. There is only one bedroom. And only one bed.”
The honeymoon cottage.
“Oh,” she managed to say with suddenly dry lips. She jerked away, choking out, “I’ll take the couch, then.”
He looked down at her. “You will take the bed.”
“That wouldn’t be fair.” Even as she told herself that he was her captor and deserved to suffer, she felt guilty about kicking him to the couch. He’d promised he wouldn’t touch her and she was starting to believe him. Hesitantly, she said, “I suppose we could share…”
“No,” he cut her off roughly.
“Why?”
“Being close to you when I am forbidden to touch you…There’s only so much a man can take. Unless you actually want to make me suffer?”
Their eyes locked, and for an instant, she forgot to breathe. Then she blinked. “A little suffering on your part might be nice, yes,” she said with an impish smile.
His returning smile rose slowly across his face, and without realizing what she was doing, she leaned forward on her toes.
“Sir.” A bodyguard entered the front room with a loud rap at the door, and they both whirled toward him. Exhaling, Xerxes gave him a quick nod. “Excuse me,” he said, turning back to her. “I must leave you now.”
“But we just got here!”
“I have something urgent to do. I will return later.” He stroked her cheek. “I’ve arranged for the housekeeper to serve dinner on the beach.”
Squeezing her hand, he left. Rose stared after him in shock.
After he left, she walked along the beach and explored the lush grounds behind the cottage. It was strange to be so alone in this beautiful place. Crossing through a tropical garden, she stopped as her jaw dropped when she saw two large weeping rose trees.
Pink fairy roses. Xerxes’s favorite flower. Growing wild on this island in the Indian Ocean, thousands of miles from Greece.
Resolutely, she turned and walked away. Then, after five steps, she stopped. Whirling, she went back to the nearest rose tree. Careful not to pierce her fingertips with thorns, she picked one of the tiny pink blooms. Returning to the cottage, she carefully put it in water in a tiny bud vase she found in the stocked modern kitchen.
Hours of sunshine later, she finally put aside the novel she was reading on the lanai in the deepening afternoon. She’d been alone all day long at a luxury beach house. She’d had a lovely lunch served to her by the housekeeper. Reading a fabulous novel and watching the sunlight sparkle across the blue waters of the Indian Ocean, kidnapped or not, she should have been having a decent time.
But she wasn’t. She was missing something. Or someone.
The thought brought her up short. She couldn’t miss Xerxes’s company. Ridiculous. He was her captor! If she occasionally found him amusing or entrancing she was merely making the best of a bad situation, that was all.
But they’d spent the long flight here talking. He’d sat right beside her, plying her with Greek dishes, asking her interested, sympathetic questions about her family and home.
She’d answered in monosyllables at first, giving him one tart reply after another. But instead of being offended, he’d seemed to enjoy the repartee. And his undivided attention had been strangely…pleasurable.
She’d felt his arm along the back of the white leather sofa behind her, so close to her body, and she’d trembled. Every time he looked at her, the intensity and heat of his dark gaze turned her inside out.
Rose didn’t want to think about it now. Or why she’d not only noticed his favorite flower in a lush garden, but she’d also picked a rose for him and placed it in water.
Looking up from her book, she noticed the dark-haired, plump young housekeeper struggling to carry a table across the beach to a spot overlooking the surf. Relieved to leave the lanai and lounge chair and all her disconcerting thoughts behind her, Rose got to her feet and hurried down to the beach. “Wait! Can I help?”
The housekeeper, who looked only a few years older than Rose, shook her head, even though she looked as if she were fighting back tears.
“Really?” Rose bit her lip. “Please, Mrs. Vadi, won’t you let me help?”
“No,” the woman said, then burst into tears. Within minutes, Rose had learned the woman was grieving for her husband, who’d died six months before, and that she was worried about her feverish eight-year-old daughter, whom she’d had to leave at home alone.
“But I can’t lose this job, miss,” the woman gasped, wiping her eyes fiercely. “If I do, I won’t be able to keep a roof over my child’s head.”
“Go home!” Rose said, sympathetic tears welling in her own eyes.
“I can’t.”
“Mr. Novros will never know you’re gone.” When the woman still hesitated, Rose grabbed her sleeve. “Please, it’s such a small thing,” she whispered. “I’m so far away from my own family. Let me at least help yours.”
The housekeeper wept and embraced her, then gave her detailed instructions about how to make the dinner, instructions Rose found herself unable to remember when she faced the stainless-steel kitchen alone half an hour later. After several inedible attempts, she gave up and prepared her own favorite dinner instead. As the rice noodles bubbled, Rose went outside and finished setting up the table by the beach.
She cast an anxious look at the sun lowering in the west in streaks of red and orange. Expecting Xerxes to return any moment, she hurried to the cottage, where she showered and brushed her hair. What to wear? Beachwear was all she had, thanks to him. Scowling, she went back to the wardrobe. She briefly considered wearing one of Xerxes’s T-shirts or khaki shorts, but the thought of wearing his clothing was too intimate. That would be the action of a lover, which—she told herself firmly—she would never be.
Ultimately, she wore two gauzy beach cover-ups layered over a pale pink bikini. She surveyed her modest look with satisfaction. The two robes together blocked her body from view. She smiled at herself in the mirror, anticipating his reaction. That would teach him!
Carrying out the dinner tray, she impulsively grabbed the pink rose she’d picked in the garden, still in a bud vase, and placed it in the center of the table. Then she sat down and waited, staring across the white sand beach toward the red and purple sunset streaking the sparkling sapphire ocean.
She jerked awake as she felt Xerxes shaking her shoulder. With a start, Rose realized she’d fallen asleep with her head cradled in her arms on the table.
It was now almost dark. His silhouette was black against the fading red sunset. He’d changed on the plane, but she saw that his jeans and T-shirt were dusty, and his face was grim. His good mood of just a few hours before had evaporated.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “What’s happened?
”
“Forget it,” he said heavily, sitting in the chair next to her.
“Where have you been?”
He shook his head bitterly. “It doesn’t matter.” He looked at the flower. “Where did that rose come from?”
She bit her lip. Had she done something wrong, something that would reveal that she’d sent the housekeeper home? “Why do you ask?” she evaded.
“The rose,” he said, then looked up at her. “I heard it was the national flower of these islands, but I’ve never been to this resort. I’m not known by the staff. Is it a coincidence? Or did you request it for me?”
“It was nothing, really,” she said awkwardly. Her cheeks felt burning hot. “I found them in the garden. I was surprised to see the same roses here, growing thousands of miles from your home. I thought you’d like it. That’s all.”
“I do,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
Taking the rose out of the vase, he reached across the table and tucked it behind her ear, in her long, wavy blond hair. His hand trailed slowly down from her ear, caressing her cheek. Then he took her hand in his own, across the table, and she shivered in the warm night.
Overhead, the sky was streaked with red and purple like the echoes of ash and fire. Like the fire slowly smoldering in his dark eyes as he looked at her. Like the fire that was filling her body with the bewildering ache of desire.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” he murmured, then looked at the covered silver dish. “Dinner must be long cold.” He sighed with regret. “I’ve been dreaming for the last hour about the dinner the housekeeper would prepare for us. Maldivian food is supposed to be spectacular, a mix of Indian, Asian and Middle Eastern flavors. Nikos has raved about her cooking more than once. I can hardly wait—”
With a flourish, he pulled the lid off the silver tray. And stared. He sat back into his chair with an amazed thump.
“Spaghetti bolognese?” he said faintly.
“Spaghetti is delicious,” she said defensively.
He looked at her.
“And with rice noodles, too!” she said, taking the spoon from him. “That’s certainly exotic! Shall I serve?”
Rose dumped some spaghetti on each plate, then looked down at her cold, rather unappetizing concoction. She’d had to improvise for ingredients. She’d used rice noodles for pasta, and since she hadn’t found a handy can of marinara sauce or even tomato paste, she’d improvised by smashing fresh tomatoes into a rudimentary sauce. She’d added a mishmash of chopped mystery meat she’d found in the fridge with whatever spices she could find in the kitchen, and hoped for the best.
All right, so she wasn’t always the best cook—except where candy was concerned—but even she couldn’t ruin something as simple as spaghetti, she hoped.
She took a bite, and discovered she was wrong.
It was awful. And cold, in the bargain. She nearly choked it out, then covered up her gag reflex with a cough before she managed to swallow it down. “Wow,” she managed to say.
Xerxes took a bite and blanched. Standing up, he threw the napkin back on the table. “I don’t know if the housekeeper was drunk in the kitchen, or if this is a joke, but I’m going to register a complaint—”
“No!” Rose grabbed his wrist, looking up at him pleadingly. “It’s not her fault. It’s mine!”
He looked down at her with a frown. “What?”
“I sent Mrs. Vadi home. I told her I’d make dinner and you wouldn’t know the difference.” Rose shook her head tearfully. “Don’t tell her manager she left. If they knew, they might fire her and it’s not her fault I botched dinner so badly!”
He slowly sat down, staring at her. “You sent her home? Why?”
“We got to talking and…her husband died recently and her little girl was sick at home alone. She needed help,” she said, “so I helped her.”
He gaped at her. “You—got to talking?” he said faintly. “I have employees who’ve worked for me for ten years and I don’t know anything about their personal lives.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I like it that way.” He blinked, still looking bewildered. “But why you would volunteer to do her work, when you could have just relaxed on the beach? It’s her job. Her responsibility. Not yours.”
Rose looked out into the growing shadows of night, listening to the roar of the ocean waves. “I had to help her be with her little girl,” she whispered, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. “Because all I want to do is talk to my own mother.”
Silence fell between them.
“I can’t risk it,” he said quietly. “If you talk to your mother, she might contact U.S. authorities. A kidnapped young bride is just the sort of sensational story that would be splashed all over the international news.”
“What if I gave you my word she wouldn’t tell?” she said desperately.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
She stared down at her plate. “Anyway, I had to let Mrs. Vadi go home and be with her family tonight. Because I can’t.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Don’t you have a family?”
He blinked. “Not the way you mean.”
“No siblings?”
“I was raised an only child.”
“Your mother?”
“Dead.”
“Your father?”
“No.”
“That’s dreadful,” Rose said softly, her heart breaking. Looking at his profile in the darkening twilight, she tightened her fingers over his. “I’m so sorry.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he pulled his hand away. “Let me guess,” he said sardonically. “You lived in a big old house, your mother baked cookies when you came home from school and your father taught you how to ride your bike.”
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Of course.” He looked away. “You had the fairy tale.”
She stared at him. The fairy tale?
Standing up abruptly, he reached for her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “This time, I’ll make dinner.”
The full moon had risen low over the horizon as they walked along the deserted beach to the honeymoon cottage. Pulling her into the modern kitchen, he turned on a light.
“I can help,” she offered weakly.
“Absolutely not.” He used the chopping knife in his hand to point at the kitchen table. “Sit there.”
As she watched, he swiftly made two large turkey sandwiches, served with slices of ripe mango. He set both plates down on the kitchen table and sat beside her.
He popped open a small bottle of Indian beer and handed it to her, then clinked his bottle against hers with a grin. “Bon appétit.”
The sandwich and fruit were delicious. As she ate, Rose looked at him in the sleek, dimly lit kitchen. His words still echoed through her mind.
You had the fairy tale.
She’d once thought marrying a handsome baron in a castle was the amazing dream. The truth was that she’d had the fairy tale all along.
She’d had family and friends she loved. She had a small apartment of her own, with her childhood home just an hour away. She’d had enough money to pay her bills. So what if she’d had to hold down more than one job to make ends meet? So what if her car didn’t always work well, or she had to jump-start it half the time to get to her night classes? She’d had a happy childhood. She’d had a happy life.
She’d been lucky beyond words.
“You’re right,” she said over the lump in her throat. “With my family, I mean. I guess I did have the fairy tale.”
Finishing his sandwich, Xerxes took a sip of beer and looked at her. “You’ll have it again.” Moonlight from the window frosted his body, making him appear otherworldly, like a dark angel, as he leaned toward her. “A woman like you was born to have a happy life.”
Her breathing quickened as his gaze fell to her mouth. He was going to kiss her. She could feel it. He stroked her cheek, tilting her he
ad up toward his, and she could barely hear the roar of the ocean over the rapid beat of her heart.
“I’ve never met a woman like you before,” he said softly, his black eyes searching hers as he stroked her bare forearm lightly with his fingertips. “You…amaze me.”
This honeymoon cottage, so remote in the middle of a wide, distant ocean, seemed like their own distant world. His handsome, rugged face, the powerful curve of his body as he leaned toward her, the light feeling of his touch against her skin, made her brain stop working. She trembled, licking her lips. Would she fall into his arms when he kissed her? Would she fall into his bed?
He glanced down at her half-empty plate. “Are you finished?”
She stared up at him, unable to even say yes.
He smiled, then took her hand in his own. “Come.”
He led her from the kitchen to the large sitting room and sat her down gently on the couch. Going back to the kitchen, he returned with a tray. She watched as he dropped fresh raspberries into a crystal flute. Popping open a bottle of expensive champagne, he poured it over the raspberries then held out the flute to her, watching her with his inscrutable dark eyes.
“What is this?” she whispered.
“I’m making it up to you.”
“What?”
“I ruined your wedding night.” When she didn’t take the flute, he pressed it into her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers. She could barely breathe as she looked up at him, feeling his large hand wrapped around her smaller one. He said in a low voice, “I am going to make it up to you tonight.”
“How?” she stammered.
He stepped back, his gaze still intensely upon her. She felt butterflies in her stomach and nervously drank the rest of the delicious raspberry-infused champagne. But the butterflies only increased. Xerxes silently refilled her champagne with a sensual promise in his dark gaze.
Then he left her, going into the adjacent white marble bathroom, with its bathtub built for two that overlooked the moonlit sea. He turned on the faucet, starting a hot, steamy bath, filling it with fragrant bubble bath.
“It’s ready,” he whispered, pulling her to her feet. She gripped his hand, feeling a little unsteady.